


Silence by the River

by Delirious21



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, More depressing, Not exactly romantic relationship, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Randomness, Sad old mechs, cute???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 19:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Ever since Optimus offered himself to the Well of Alsparks, Ratchet's struggled to keep going. As Cybertron is being rebuilt and new mechs fly in every cycle, Ratchet is faced with a mech from his past. A mech with an offer. Holding tight to a hatred fueled by years of failure, Ratchet makes his way back to Earth to find an old enemy. What happens next isn't what he expected. (Complete)





	1. Encounter with a Screamer

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hate me!

Ratchet could never come to peace with his old friend’s death. Optimus Prime was one with the Allspark, but Ratchet refused to let go of the rage. He refused to be defeated by the pain. Even if it meant separating himself from society. Yet, he still had a role in Cybertron’s reconstruction. In fact, he was the only Autobot able to nurse the planet’s core back to stability. It was an honor, and he accepted it as such. But it was miserable all the same. 

Optimus would have been overcome with joy to see Cybertron as it was becoming. Every cycle more and more bots arrived, many of them barely hanging on. Yet, the second they stepped foot back onto their home world, hope lit a fire in their optics. The vacant Decepticon fort, Darkmount, was destroyed, its shadow no longer able to dampen spirits. In its place, a memorial to the pre-war Cybertron was mounted. Inscribed at the base, a quote, one few could misplace, captioned all its glory.

Wisdom cannot be granted, it must be earned. Sometimes, at a cost. 

If there was one thing Ratchet had left to hate, it was Optimus’s absence. Not a single being alive could compare to that mech. Ratchet told himself long ago that he would stop pretending they could. He never did. Whenever in the company of another bot, he would search for any, and all, flaws: anything Optimus wasn’t. It was a habit that hurt the ones who cared about him more than anything else. 

The remainder of what used to be Team Prime could only give so much into helping Ratchet. For a while, Cybertron’s fate rested on them. Who would lead? What rules did this new Cybertron have? Who would enforce those rules? It tore at their sparks that they couldn’t offer Ratchet every ounce of their attention. Any fool could see he was only getting worse.   
He hardly ate at all, focusing his soul and mind on repairing Primus. An unrealistic task. He would never be able to make their world whole if he lacked the means to do so. Perhaps, if his spark were pure, he would have been able to sacrifice himself to be molded by Primus. To fill in the gaps. To return Cybertron to its full glory. But Ratchet would never again be pure. 

That specific day had been long and arduous for all of Team Prime, even Ratchet. He worked and he worked, but he had come to a wall and progress was halted. He could repair coding, but not rebuild it. 

When the first living quarters were built, Wheeljack insisted a pub be put up right next to it. Quite a bit of time had passed since he brought up the idea. Ratchet still grumbled about wanting a drink when no one but Primus was around. 

Maybe a drink was all he needed to get back on his feet. To return to the others.

Ratchet locked his hab suit’s door behind him. He lived in one of the only first-floor cubes; the original housing units for refugees. It was fine. He had closets and such for what little energon he was distributed. Any tools he owned were kept in a locked storage unit above the Allspark. The main entrance was right next to his room, but the constant opening and closing wasn’t such a bother. It reminded Ratchet that he wasn’t alone. No matter how hard he wanted to be. 

Frame an aching, hot mess, Ratchet collapsed onto his padded berth. Messages from numerous members of the old team lit up the datapad he kept by the berth. He ignored them, rolling onto his side and closing his optics. 

The next morning, Ratchet’s alarms woke him, and he skipped the energon in favor of getting to work. If you could call it that. More of an assignment. 

By then, the guards knew him by face, and he was—supposedly—the only mech with clearance. Yet, Primus wasn’t alone when Ratchet descended to him. Another mech, slim and silver with flashy red bits of color, leaned against the wall. The Well of Allsparks was one giant cylinder of melded rock and metal that surrounded the planet’s core, and for that mech to be there felt like a disgrace. Like Optimus’ sacrifice had meant nothing.

The other mech pushed away from the wall and sauntered towards Ratchet. “I would turn you into scrap metal if I didn’t need you. I do hope you are aware of that, medic.” His words scraped against the back of his throat, coming out a horrible garble that was all too pruned and all too familiar. 

Ratchet set his crate of tools and blueprints down. “Starscream,” he growled. “How did you get down here?”

The silver mech grinned, heels of his pedes clicking against the floor as he circled Ratchet. “Let us discuss a more pressing matter. You—”

“I will not help you do anything.”

Starscream chuckled. “Ah, but you won’t attack me either.” He leaned in closer, taunting. “You are weak without your leader. I, however, am at my strongest! And I will lead the new legion of Decepticons! But, before I can do that, there’s a smudge on my map that needs to be erased.”

Ratchet’s dentae ground together. 

Starscream tsked, a sour smile spreading wide across his faceplate. “Oh, did I forget to inform you. . . I have one of the little fleshy rodents you care so much about. And if you don’t do as I say, well. . .” the red in his optics flared. “Shockwave will have to get his servos dirty. Not that he minds, though.”

“If I ever trusted you I’d glitch.” Ratchet shot daggers into the skimpy mech’s skull. He wondered what Starscream thought the average human’s lifespan was. Was he really that ignorant?

The datapad Starscream presented almost cracked under the force Ratchet gripped it with. The projected image was of a girl who looked too much like Miko, who hung mid-air, suspended by cables and chains wrapped around her waist and all four limbs. In the photograph, she was awake, glaring at whoever took the picture. Her black and pink spiky hair was a flattened mess, and her eyeliner had streaked all down her face like oily tears.

Ratchet threw the datapad on the ground, satisfied that it shattered. “I swear to Primus—”

“Oh relax. It won’t die. Well, it will if you fail me.” Starscream’s long, absurdly sharpened digits tapped on his hip. “Though, naturally, I can’t promise that Shockwave will not get bored watching the human. It is quite the screamer.”

In the eyes of both Primus and, possibly Optimus, Ratchet sent his right fist slamming into the side of Starscream’s helm. Starscream let out a growl and lunged back, claws slicing through more than one layer of metal. Ratchet’s chest was quickly drenched by his own energon. 

He stumbled back, but made no attempt to slow the bleeding. “You will not hurt that human,” he spat, energon on his breath. Did it matter that it was just a random human? Optimus would say it wouldn’t. She was innocent. 

Starscream grinned. “Perfect. Directions will be sent to your hab suit. I would advise you not get any wise ideas in the meantime, doctor.” He jumped up and transformed into his sleek jet and flew right through the top of the Well. 

Ratchet heard the sirens from above, every minute noise echoing down to him. But they faded fast. He knew they would send someone to check on the Allspark, so he propped himself up against the guardrail surrounding it and quickly slid into darkness.


	2. Bartering

“Primus, what happened to him?” Bumblebee muttered. 

The clipped voice of Catscan responded, “He was struck right by his spark and lost a lot of energon before the guards found him. I do not mean to alarm you, bu—”

“Who did this to him? Tell me, Catscan.”

“I was getting there,” the sparkless mech grumbled. “I am certain you remember Starscream. He flew right past the guards when he left the Well of Allsparks.”

“Almost like he wanted them to go down and find Ratchet when they checked the Well.” Bumblebee let out a long breath. “It’s been meta-cycles since Starscream made his last appearance. Why come back to slash up a medic?”

Ratchet was beginning to regain sense of his limbs, and his optics were a bit wider than a slit. Catscan was replacing his IV drip, and he could feel the gentle tugs on the tubes inserted in his servo. 

Catscan disposed of the old IV bag. “Perhaps Starscream has returned to seek revenge? He always was the pretentious type.”

“What are you saying?” Bumblebee plopped down in the guest chair next to the medical berth. “That he’s doing this for Megatron?”

“Possibly.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though. If he were attacking for Megatron, Ratchet’s injuries would’ve been fatal.”

“I did not say it was confirmed, sir.”

Ratchet groaned when he tried to move his legs some. The pain in his chest made his optics squeeze shut. “Catscan—Gah!” Ratchet spat profanity, the bandages around his spark pulling at the wounds. 

Catscan carefully guided him into a propped-up position. “Easy there. You will need more rest before I can repair your wounds.”

Bumblebee stood and inched closer to the berth. “Ratchet, what did Starscream want?”

Catscan scowled. “If you plan to pester my patient, I will have you escorted out, sir.” 

The younger yellow and black Bot backed up some. He watched Ratchet with those wide, almost too innocent, blue optics.

“He didn’t say anything,” Ratchet muttered. 

Bumblebee frowned. “It’s not like Starscream to keep his mouth shut.”

That evening, Bumblebee escorted Ratchet back to his one-roomed apartment. The worry was still clear in his optics. He made small talk, but trying to get Ratchet to respond was impossible. When they reached the door to his suit, Bumblebee passed him the pain medicine and extra bandages from Catscan. For a sparkless mech, he really did look out for his patients. 

Ratchet mumbled something of a thank you and slipped into his room, all but slamming the door behind him. Not a single thing was where he’d left it the previous cycle. His datapads were scattered on the floor, most shattered, and even his berth was upturned. The energon shares he’d been storing were nowhere to be found, but there was a datapad where they used to be. Ratchet turned it on. A set of coordinates and a message flashed on the screen: 

You have ten solar cycles to kill him.

Ratchet threw the datapad across the room where it hit the wall and shattered. Taking only Catscan’s bottle of pills and pack of bandages, he left the living complex and marched right down the streets. It only took a joor or so for him to reach the restored sub level six section of Cybertron. He spotted the joint he was looking for. He pushed through the crowd to enter Maccadam’s Old Oil House. Surprisingly enough, about half of the staff had managed to survive the war, and returned with just as many sweet and bitter exotic oils. The bar was owned by Blurr though, who had taken over when it was clear Maccadam wouldn’t be there anytime soon. The kid was good, but had some things to learn about bar-tending and the black-market combo. 

The place was bustling, and a jokester was parading around the stage like a madman, taking tips where he could find them. Ratchet shouldered his way towards the darkest corner of the joint, where business, as usual, was taking place. Of the six booths back there, only two were free. Ratchet slid in across from a mech with a red visor and black detailing. He was clearly a war build; He barely fit in the booth. 

“What do we’ve got here?” the mech chuckled, his voice a raspy, scraping sound.

“Business,” Ratchet replied, a slight twinge to his voice. He overwooked himself about a half a joor ago, and his wounds were stinging up a storm under his repaired plating.

“That so?” The giant mech scratched at his chin. “Well then, what can I do yuh for, old bot?”

Ratchet set the full bottle of medicine on the table. “I need a flight pod.”

The mech’s block-like optic ridges quirked. “What for?”

“That’s my business.”

The mech reached over the table to tap one blunt digit against Ratchet’s covered emblem. “Whatcha got under there?”

“A choice I made long ago.”

“Ah, I made that same choice. I dropped it too. So, you gonna tell me what you need the pod for?” He leaned back, folding his bulky arms over his chassis. “Cause I can’t do business with you if I think you’re gonna try and bomb Cybertron then ditch the place or somethin’.”

Ratchet ground his dentae together, hard enough to leave a dull throbbing ache in his jaw. “I need to find someone.”

“Eh, not good enough. Who is this someone?”

“An old enemy. Now,” Ratchet nudged the pill bottle across the table. “Do you want these or not?”

The mech snatched up the pills, desperation a sudden glint in his optics. “I’ll do yuh one better. I still have the ship I showed up in. It’s got a pod left.” He shook the little sealed bottle of meds. “I’ll take you to it right now.”

Ratchet grabbed the bottle back. “You get them when I get my pod.”

“Then let’s take a stroll, you old rust bucket.”

The second they were out of the bar, the mech ripped off his emblem cover and tossed it to the side of the road. Ratchet’s optics caught the smooth, round edges and perfect symmetry of a black Autobot insignia. He removed his own cover. 

The mech stood at twice Ratchet’s height, yet he walked light on his pedes as they maneuvered the streets. “The name’s Splint, by the way.”

Ratchet glanced up at the mech. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

Splint rubbed the back of his neck, awkward. “Nah. I just figured I could get somethin’ good if I tried out some bartering with shady guys.” He chuckled, taking a turn passed a cluster of waste disposal shops. “If someone didn’t have nothin’ good, I was gonna make ‘em suck my spike.”

Ratchet stepped a bit further away from the mech. “That is disgusting.”

Splint shrugged and pushed through a shoddy, rusted metal fence that lead to a vacant lot. “Yeah. I guess. Well,” he motioned to the rusting old hunk of junk resting in the shadows. “Here she is.”

“You’re joking,” Ratchet deadpanned.

Splint tilted his helm ever so slightly to the left. “Ah, don’t give me that. The pod’ll work. But if you need anything else, I might just need to get a—”

“No.” Ratchet glanced around before walking closer to the yellow and orange, dingy little ship. “Where did you get this?”

“Made it myself.” Splint opened the loading hatch and stepped up the ramp. “You wanna see the pod or not?”

The inside of the ship was cramped and falling apart. Empty energon cubes were thrown off to the side, and they piled up like ant hills. It was one room; the control area, which broke off into one miniscule storage unit and an even smaller emergency escape pod. Ratchet rapped his knuckle against the door to the pod. Unlike the rest of the ship, it wasn’t cheap metal. It still shimmered with a dark polish Ratchet had only seen on pre-war Autobot vessels. 

Splint opened the pod with the manual coding and waved for Ratchet to step inside. Though there wasn’t much wiggle room, Ratchet wedged himself between two canisters of some odd, green, sloshing liquid. He arched a brow at Splint.

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout those,” Splint mumbled. 

Ratchet heaved himself back out of the cramped pod. “Synthetic energon?”

“I’ll get em’ out of your way.” He grabbed hold of a canister and yanked it over the lip of the pod door and let it roll down the ship’s aisle. “It was just a gift from an old pal.”

“How much fuel is in the pod?”

Splint tossed the last canister out of the escape pod. “Enough to get you half way across the galaxy and back. Need more, you know what you gotta do.”

Ratchet glared at the bulky mech. “I do not need anything else.” 

“Then give me my end of the barter, bucket-head.”

Ratchet tossed the pills to Splint as he situated himself in the seat and entered the coordinates he was given into the control panel. A tiny blip on the screen popped up, all green and blue.

“Earth?” Splint popped his helm back out. “What would an old medic like you want on an organic planet?”

Ratchet closed the pod hatch on Splint’s face and worked to start the engine. The bottom of the vessel scraped against the ground, emitting sparks, but he still got it up. The second he was passed Cybertron’s outer layer of atmosphere, he activated hyperdrive and headed straight for Earth and his target.


	3. Meeting

For a majority of the trip, the pod worked just fine, and Ratchet could breathe. But near the end of the fourth cycle it began to shake so hard his jaw rattled. He was barely able to push it into Earth’s atmosphere before it gave out and started to drop. The energon rushed to Ratchet’s processor. He held onto the control console in a smidgen of an attempt to brace for the impact. 

45 clicks were all it took before Ratchet and his black-market escape pod met Earth’s unforgiving surface. Smoke and screeching sirens confused Ratchet, but once the smoke cleared he could see the damage. The pod had split at the top, and the nose was pancaked flat. Ratchet’s left leg was crushed under the folded front half of the pod. Light blue, dazzling energon left a warm trail down his leg. The sheer weight of the metal pressing down on Ratchet’s leg lit sparks behind his optics. He tried to twist free, but the movement only added to the already extensive damage. With his other leg, he pushed back as hard as he could, hoping the pull would free him. But all it did was tear the ligatures in his knee, leaving him a cursing, bleeding mess. He twisted and turned, trying to find a good, strong piece of metal he could use for leverage. Nothing fit the qualifications.  
Ratchet fumbled for a moment before activating the blades hidden behind his servos. He couldn’t feel his leg by then, and was mostly guessing as to where it was pinned. The blades emitted a horrible, screech-like sound when he cut through the control panel. He carved a rectangle around what he could see of his upper thigh. The section of metal cut loose was easy for Ratchet to toss aside, but it took several joors of that to completely free his leg. Blacking out didn’t help much either. As soon as a sliver of his strength returned, he molded a makeshift splint out of stiff metal sheets and an old Autobot banner he discovered under his seat. The two sheets of metal went on either side of the leg, and the banner wrapped around the leg and sheets to keep everything in place. 

But Ratchet was still stuck in the pod. The emergency release on the door had been jammed, so he had to throw himself against it to try and get the manual locks to give. Only after his shoulder was sore and throbbing did the door burst open. He was sent tumbling down the steps and onto a dry creek bed. 

Ratchet had no choice but to abandon the pod. The amount of smoke pouring out from the engine, and the sheer heat of the day were too hazardous a combination. So he turned, and hobbled a straight line, headlights on, in hopes of finding a good, secluded spot to rest. All the way, he grumbled and winced. He cursed the humans and their inability to stop getting captured, and he cursed his fondness for them. He lost count of how many times he had to stop for a moment’s rest.

After what felt like joors, Ratchet was slipping and stumbling and swearing his way up a slight incline to reach the lip of what appeared to be a cave, carved into a rockface. He managed to reach the opening before collapsing, injuries sending him back into stasis.

~~

Ratchet woke to a hair-splitting pain engulfing his left leg. He made out a deep, raspy voice in the background of all the white noise as well.

“Optimus Prime’s medic? How. . .”

Ratchet’s helm lolled to the side as his optics struggled to open. A warm, gushing sensation pulsed against his side, and it all but lulled him back into stasis. If not for the servos suddenly shaking him, Ratchet surely would have passed out again.

“You must remain awake, Doctor.” 

Purple, oval optics gleamed above Ratchet, their unnatural hue a stark contrast to the silver of the mech’s plating. Callused servos helped him to sit up and lean against a cool rock wall. The warmth by Ratchet’s side disappeared, and he shivered; the lack of contact a harsh reminder of just how alone he was. 

Yet he knew that voice. It wasn’t one a mech could willingly forget. A ruler’s slow draw, a heavy weight placed upon simple words, a grovel to the tone, unique to a mech whose vocal chords were the product of eons of protesting and rallying. A terrifying jolt of electricity shot up Ratchet’s spine, and his optics opened in a flash.

Ratchet was still right next to the cave entrance, which gave him a good look at the mech before him. He kicked his good leg in a struggle to stand, but the warlord made no advance. Rather, he stood just feet away and watched as Ratchet landed heavy on the cave bottom, having placed too much weight on his bad leg. Ratchet activated his blades and stared down the other mech, a tremble starting in his shoulders.

“I have no intention of harming you,” Megatron said. 

“As if I’d believe that.” Ratchet squinted at him, trying to place the odd feel to his presence. 

How long had it been since he last shivered in the shadow of Megatron’s power? But the determination, that evil, sporadic glint to his optics wasn’t there like it used to be. He was covered in scabs, predominantly along the edges of his armor. Once proud, gaunty spikes had been turned into lumps of purple and black scabs. There wasn’t a single sharp edge left to the mech; not even his digits. Every bit of enhanced armor he had once gained from embodying Unicron had been filed away at till it was nothing but a faint dusting of gold along his chassis. 

Ratchet blinked, caught off guard by the odd innocence Megatron’s self-altered frame seemed to hold. “You are not Megatron,” he muttered.

Said mech’s optics stilled. “I am.”

Dentae grinding together, Ratchet shoved himself to stand. He centered his weight on his right leg and hobbled a step closer, fists raised. “It’s time you pay your dues, for all those you slaughtered.”

Megatron’s helm bobbed once, then he went stock still. He didn’t move a single inch as Ratchet approached, hate and agony igniting the blue of his optics.

“You deserve worse than what I am giving you. You murdered thousands of our people! Destroyed our home!” He swung his fist around, the rage fueling his strength and sending Megatron back against the domed cave wall. Bits of rock were knocked loose when Ratchet began raining punch after punch after punch. He listed off names of comrades he’d lost over the years; of patients he couldn’t save; of mechs he watched Megatron tear in half and toss aside. “Primus wasted his time on you! You could have been great, but you turned into a monster! You could have done so much good! But you killed and you killed and you killed!” Ratchet screamed. He lavished every time his knuckles clanged against the jagged metal of Megatron’s faceplates and energon splattered the rock surrounding them. 

Megatron just stood there and took the beating, helm whipping every which way with every punch. And Ratchet didn’t stop. His spark throbbed with the memory of every dead mech and femme. He’d watched the life slip from their smiles and their cheers. He saw them sitting around a table in a crusty old bar, laughing and joking and celebrating any minor victory. Their homes, their lives were destroyed but they could still put on that mask. And they wore it so well. They were soldiers, but they had a purpose. They had something to hold onto when everything else went up in flames. And even that was taken from them. 

Ratchet reverted his servos back into blades and rested them right atop the middle of Megatron’s chassis. “Look at me,” he demanded.

Megatron’s heavy intake forced the smaller mech to step back a moment. His optics, a twitching, bloodied mess, did their best to lock onto Ratchet’s. 

“Primus forsake you,” Ratchet muttered. He began to throw his weight into the stab, but the silence pounding in his audials made him pause. There had been no struggle. Megatron was covered in his own energon, and listened to every utterance Ratchet spurted out, his features lax. Oh how Ratchet wanted that mech to suffer; a slow death wouldn’t cut it. Death was what Megatron wanted. 

Ratchet swayed backwards and spat on Megatron’s face. “Death is too good for you.” 

“I know.”

Ratchet’s fist met Megatron’s faceplate one last time. “You know nothing!” Standing, he limped towards the mouth of the cave. 

“You are leaving before the job is finished?” Megatron called, monotone.

“I plan to milk this out.” 

Ratchet didn’t make it very far. He was too exhausted and had lost too much energon to hike any further than half way down the slope that dipped into the basin. His legs gave out and he collapsed. Crumbled. Sprawled out on the dead ground, his helm knocking against an ancient tree’s amputated stump.


	4. "What are you doing?"

Ratchet was flashing in and out of consciousness, but he was awake long enough to feel his helm scrape against something solid and metal, and, for a moment, he was awake, looking up at the stars. The bliss was brief, and he slipped back into stasis. 

Ratchet stirred when the scorching rays of the sun hit him from the outside of the cave. He cursed his wounds and the lightning bolt of pain shredding his comprehension. He groaned and let his helm drop and clank against the cave floor. He didn’t have the sense of mind to worry about where Megatron was, nor the sense to notice that there was a half-spilled cube of energon next to him. Black spots dotted the edges of his vision, and he felt himself begin to slip back into the void of his unconscious mind until something lifted his severely swollen left leg. 

Ratchet cried out from the pain, and his digits dug into the top of his thighs. He barely heard the muttered response of whoever was now lowering his leg.

They tried again. “Did you hear me? I apologize, Doctor, but this swelling is not healthy. I have to raise it, or you will not be able to walk properly.”

Ratchet lifted his helm as high as he could manage, but dropped it just as quick when he saw Megatron at his legs. His breaths were ragged and short, and his spark thrummed anxiously in his chest. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t kill Megatron in his state, but he wasn’t even sure if this was Megatron. Maybe it was a decoy. Either way, he wouldn’t be able to do anything unless he fixed himself up. 

“I need to put my knee in water,” Ratchet mumbled. “Cold water.”

Megatron stood up next to him. “There is a river, but it’s at the bottom of the basin.”

Ratchet closed his optics from the pain as he tried to move his left leg on his own. “I won’t be able to move without reopening my wounds. Never mind. Ju—”

Megatron leaned down and, all too effortlessly, scooped Ratchet up off the ground. He cradled the medic in his arms like a child. Ratchet’s back arched from the shooting pain in his torso, never mind the humiliation.

“Put me down!” he shouted, his fists beating against Megatron’s jaw. “You’re going to rip open my wounds!”

Megatron’s lips creased. “Calm down. If the water will help, I will take you to it. If being carried is too humiliating for your stubborn, indignant personality, close your optics and think of something else. You won’t be able to kill me and return to Cybertron in this condition.” 

Ratchet glared up at the other mech, feeling like a little mouse in the hold of the hungry lion. Ratchet clutched his chassis and stared ahead as Megatron walked. Megatron’s digits curled around Ratchet’s side, gentle and careful, but the details flew passed Ratchet, whose wounds had reopened and were gushing fresh energon. 

By the time they reached the shoreline, Ratchet’s energon covered both his and Megatron’s chassis, and his helm lolled to the side as he drifted in and out of conscious. The river was an exciting, clear blue, but slow and calm. There were only a handful of birds and fish around when Megatron carried Ratchet into the water, and they all scattered. 

Ratchet was jolted awake when the water leaked behind his plating and reached his sensitive lines. Instinctively, his servos gripped the rounded edges of Megatron’s plating, and their torsos were pressed flush together. Once he realized what he was doing, he let go and pushed against Megatron’s chassis. They situated themselves on opposite sides of the riverbank, and Ratchet leaned against a stray boulder. His optics slid close as the energon caking his frame was washed away and his wounds were cleaned. 

The sun shone right through the dead foliage, casting its rays lazily onto Ratchet, and easing him into a listless sleep. 

~~

“Doctor? It is time to fuel. Wake up,” Megatron whispered as he carefully shook Ratchet’s shoulder. “Doctor, you’re fuel is running low. Wake up.”

Ratchet squinted up at Megatron’s spikeless face. “Where are we?” he asked, since he was back on a stiff, unforgiving ground instead of soaking in a cool, cleansing river. 

Megatron nudged a cube of hand-made energon closer to Ratchet’s helm. “You were resting, but it was dark, so I carried you back to the cave. Now, fuel up.”

Ratchet propped himself up on his arms and inspected his scabbing wounds. The swelling in his knee had gone down, and all of his wounds had sealed themselves with scabs and a thin layer of pliable metal. He was able to sit up and, though it still stung, he didn’t writhe in agony. 

“I want to stand,” Ratchet said. He knew he’d lied earlier. He wasn’t going to milk this. This was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he wasn’t going to wait any longer.   
Megatron picked up the cube of energon. “Eat first.”

Ratchet knocked the energon out of his servo. “Get me up!” 

Megatron stood, his optics half-closed and dull. He hooked his servos under Ratchet’s arms and lifted. Ratchet swayed on his pedes, but he used the cave walls to stay upright. One servo on the wall, the other transformed into a blade, Ratchet eyeballed Megatron, who hadn’t moved at all. 

“Sit down,” Ratchet commanded. “Sit down!”

Megatron lowered himself to the ground, joints creaking. 

“Good. Now, tell me who you are. Who you really are.”

Megatron’s servos balled into fists in his lap. “What makes you believe that I’m not who I say I am? I am a killer, Doctor, a murderer. I slaughtered thousands upon thousands and I didn’t even blink. I enjoyed it.”

Ratchet swayed. “If you really are Megatron, then tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“You are in no shape to attack me, Doctor. Your wounds need time to heal, and you need to regain your strength,” Megatron said.

Ratchet’s knees buckled, and he started to fall onto his own blade. Megatron surged forward, pushing him back against the cave wall and pinning his wrists above him with one servo, while the other wrapped around Ratchet’s back to support him. Megatron’s breath heaved and his helm hung low enough for his crest to touch the tip of Ratchet’s, who was trapped between his chassis and the wall. Their optics opened and locked. Ratchet was surrounded by Megatron’s warmth, and the servo around his waist was almost affectionate. The cave was filled with the noise of their sparks, thrumming out of sync with one another's. Megatron’s helm dipped lower, until he was close enough to place a kiss on Ratchet’s neck. 

Ratchet shifted under Megatron. “What are you doing?” he growled. 

Megatron’s grip on his hips tightened for a moment before he let go and helped ease him into a sitting position. “I. . . I apologize,” he muttered. He turned and slipped out of the cave, disappearing from sight. 

~~

Megatron came back to the cave the next morning, two sad little chunks of energon crystal in his servo. Ratchet pretended to be recharging, but he “woke up” when Megatron brought him a new cube of energon from the back of the cave. 

“Where did you get energon?” Ratchet asked, as Megatron turned to leave again. 

The silver mech turned his helm. “There is a deposit not far from here. Though I’m afraid I’ve stripped most of it already.”

Ratchet shifted where he sat, a primal urge to fight swelling in his chest. “I need to move around.”

Megatron didn’t move. “I will help you when I return tomorrow. In the meantime, eat.” Once again, he disappeared around the bend of the cave mouth.


	5. Flowers

A ghost of a servo rested on Ratchet’s knee, and for once, it didn’t hurt. Nothing did. There was no ache, no processor-glitching pain, no gush of fresh energon. The servo brushed under Ratchet’s knee, cleaning away crusted energon. Ratchet took a deep breath and let himself relax. He imagined it was Optimus touching him in his sleep. Optics still closed, he reached for the servos on his knee, but they jerked away, and suddenly the pain was back. 

Optics, still heavy with sleep, cycled open, and Ratchet stared up at Megatron. Light flooded the cave, dripping its golden hue on everything. Megatron’s front was covered in shadow, but his shoulders and the side of his helm caught the rays and made him look like something out of a dream. Like a mystical creature covered in filth and grime, but is still the pride of the gods. 

Ratchet blinked and the cave was all shadow, a bushel of frustrated clouds blocking the sun. And Megatron was back to his cold-blooded, murderous self. He knelt next to Ratchet, optics half-lidded and dreary. Next to him was one measly energon crystal. 

“When do you plan to kill me, Doctor?” he asked, servos balling up and resting on his lap. 

There was nothing fierce about the question, nothing commanding. It was just a question. Yes, it had a boatload of intention behind it, but Ratchet couldn’t see past the grimness of it all. It wasn’t the first time he’d held a mech’s life in his servos, but this felt like an entirely new experience. He was in control, but he didn’t feel like it. It still felt like he was the one being twisted around and manipulated, and by a mech with a death wish. By a mech who didn’t deserve to choose whether he died or not. 

Ratchet hesitated, and Megatron snatched his servo, bringing it to his neck. “Kill me.”

Ratchet’s digits wrapped around the cables of Megatron’s neck, but he didn’t have the strength to squeeze. He dropped his servo. “No. I’m not going to kill you.”

Megatron’s servos clenched into fists. “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?” The harsh snap to his voice was back, that familiar warlord tone. The, I’m-going-to-rip-you-apart growl. 

Encouraged by the boiling energon in his lines, Ratchet leaned close enough to touch. “If you wanted to die, you should have killed yourself.” He settled back against the cave wall, satisfied with the reflection of deflating rage on Megatron’s faceplates. “No, I’m going to make sure you rot and rust ‘till you’re just a heap of worthless dust. That’s what you deserve.” Megatron went to respond, but Ratchet snarked, “I’m open to alternatives, as long as nothing happens too fast.” 

For the moment, Ratchet was done. Megatron took those few seconds while the other caught his breath to ask, “And why would I allow you to do that?”

Ratchet scoffed and lifted his chin. “What else are you going to do? Even if you kill me, the Elite Guard will be here soon, and they’ll take care of you. I pray to Primus they’ll throw you around a bit, toss you in a dump once they’re done. No one would be able to tell you apart from a broken carbur—”

The clash of metal against metal was resounding. It bounced off the cave walls and disturbed the lifeless forest beyond. The sky was filled with scavenger birds screaming their ugly songs, each battling to be furthest from the commotion. Megatron stood, glowering over Ratchet, fists hanging at his sides, right knuckles split open and dripping energon. The hatred was finally back, completely. The unhindered rage, masking a grating remorse. 

Ratchet swiped at the gash spreading from the corner of his lip plate to the outside of his left optic. “That all you got, kid?” he rumbled, trying to mask the pain gurgling like bile in his throat. 

“Get out.” Megatron turned his back on Ratchet as he headed deeper into the cave. “Get out!”

Ratchet spat energon. “Yeah, let me just get up and walk out on my own,” he quipped.

Megatron whipped around, stalking closer. “I had every intention of helping you, if you would help me! All I asked for was death, but instead you give me snark and sarcasm? Get out!” He yanked Ratchet up by the arm and shoved him towards the mouth of the cave. “No one will come for you, or for me! We’re relics, useless, dangerous relics!” 

“You’re right, you were so useful before this! You helped prune millions of family trees, it’s fantastic!” Ratchet struggled to lift himself on one stable leg. His wounds had opened, again. He’d be in desperate need of more energon in a couple of joors. “You’re a monster, not a relic, and monsters should all be thrown to the Pits!” He hobbled closer to the lip of the cave.

“And how many died because of your incompetence, Doctor? How many innocent mechs and femmes?”

Ratchet’s knees buckled. “They would never have been on my table if you hadn’t decided you were going to ‘cleanse’ Cybertron!” His digits dug grooves into the cave wall he used to stabilize himself. “It all leads back to you; all the suffering, all the mourning, it is all because you weren’t happy with what you got!”

Megatron’s fists unfurled. “You couldn’t begin to have the slightest inkling of what you are talking about.”

Ratchet had already slipped out of the cave, and he didn’t care that he was running away like a wounded bitch. For once, he didn’t care. He stumbled through the dead and decaying woods, upsetting everything in his path and bleeding a steady stream of energon from his knee. The cut on his cheek had crusted over, just like his pride.

At this point, he had no one. Absolutely no one. The few Bots whose names he’d remembered were back on Cybertron, and the only humans who tolerated him had died decades ago. He could only hope that Optimus wouldn’t leave him, spiritually speaking. It was a feeble hope, but sometimes that’s all an old mech really needs. Anything to make them think there’s a light to go towards. 

Ratchet’s light was fading, both figuratively and literally. He wasn’t sure how far he’d stumbled, but the sun was edging closer and closer to the horizon, its rays filing through the weak and barren branches of long-dead trees. He slowed down, and after a while he could make out a faint gurgle, and, then the slow, beating rhythm of the river as it churned and tossed over a fall of boulders. He inched closer, hesitant of the current and the waves lapping at the pebble-covered shore, carrying an algae green muck that stuck to the rocks and gathered in clumps where it could, barely out of reach of the water. Twigs and branches were flushed down the rapids and collected on the edge of the bank, or in crevices between boulders, and then with the next rush of water they were swept away, downriver and through another series of rapids. 

A single tree, its branches lively and freckled with candy-colored leaves that rustled in the wind, was rooted in the side of the bank. A tangle of wiry, thin roots escaped from the soil and dangled over the water, as if teasing it. The bark was coarse and ridged with shallow grooves along the younger branches and canyons running up the trunk and winding their way into the ground. Bristly vines twisted around the tree, tendrils of green reaching and curling towards the sun. 

The tree was a rarity, for sure. It was the only one Ratchet had noticed that was sprouting. It didn’t seem to bear any fruit, just a wispy blue flower with big drooping petals that looked like tear drops, and yellow, pollen covered anthers clustered in the middle. The flowers were small but plenty. Ratchet sat in the debris beneath the tree, catching his breath but not ignoring the beauty of his discovery. 

His knee continued to bleed, and the ground was so thirsty it lapped it up. He thought back to the “fight” he’d had with Megatron, trying to make sense of something, anything, but not making it far. Megatron only hit him once. He didn’t kill him, so maybe that was a change in character. But Ratchet was more concerned about why he said he wasn’t going to kill Megatron. He wondered when he decided that, and chocked it up to exhaustion and energon loss. He wanted to watch Megatron die, not long and stretched out, but painful and messy. That’s what he told himself. 

It wasn’t really that Optimus was nagging his conscious, telling him to have mercy on a mech who didn’t deserve any. Turn the other cheek for now, be the stronger mech and council him. Perhaps he has changed. We must know before we condemn him to pay for his crimes.

No. No, it wasn’t that. It couldn’t’ve been. Optimus had always been foolish, too eager to find the good in the midst of evil. Ratchet knew that. He did. 

He could have sworn he did.


	6. Slipping Deeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapters now.

It didn’t take long for his lack of energon to have Ratchet’s optics cycling down, and he slouched against the tree, back to the water, not hearing it groan, not seeing the roots tug from the ground. His knee was gaining feeling and swelling again, but that didn’t stop him from losing conscious. 

~~

Water pounded against Ratchet’s helm, circling and dragging him lower, and he woke up with a start. White waters thundered down on him, and for a moment he panicked. He was going to drown! Something big and solid wacked against his back and the pain reminded him; he wasn’t human. He wouldn’t drown, it’d just take some time to drain the water from his systems. 

The rapids were relentless, and gripped Ratchet with their current, keeping his good leg wedged between two boulders and underneath a log that was tethered there by weeds and debris. He didn’t bother trying to keep his helm above the water; he had lost too much energon, and what remained of his pride was spilling downriver with the white water tumbles. He could barely lift a digit, let alone a log off of his knee. He kept asking himself what good escaping the water would do anyway. There wasn’t anything waiting for him, and he had no one expecting him back on Cybertron. Nobody cared enough. 

In Ratchet’s optics, everyone back on Cybertron cared for him the absolute minimum that they were morally obligated to. Watch the old guy, watch him for Optimus. Don’t stop being a good apprentice, follow commands. Make sure he doesn’t lose his mind or his life, then go about your own life and forget about him. Say hello, shake servos, then run away to scrub your servos raw and shove the memory of him away so you can function. He’d seen it, he knew it. 

Before the war, there were mechs who hated the ones that would smile in public but grimace in private. Those mechs never made Ratchet feel alone or discarded. They’d pull him close and tell him to lift his chin, show the world that he isn’t a curse, he’s a blessing.

Now, if someone tried to tell Ratchet that, he’d scoff and walk away, staring right through familiar faces, and lock himself in his lab. Or maybe he’d be so aggravated that he’d take a broken down, busted up pod and crash land on an all too familiar planet in search of an all too familiar warlord. 

Ex-warlord.


	7. Chapter 7

Ratchet’s conscious flickered, and he was still in the water, his lines freezing and legs throbbing. The moon shone bright above him, casting glances off of his slick plating and sending them darting into the woods, like a giant disco ball. The shimmers caught in the eyes of the few beasts who cultivated on the bank, drinking the murky water. Ratchet couldn’t remember what they were called, but their long, slender legs and wide, skittish eyes struck him as familiar. Perhaps Rafael had showed him an image before. That was long ago though, and he couldn’t be sure. 

His helm dipped under the water again, and his mind wandered back to the days when Team Prime lived side-by-side with the humans. The children, who were never supposed to get involved, had taught them so much, but it was all slipping further and further away as the years passed. He could remember the high pitched whir of the toy cars Miko and Jack would race around the base, and the school projects they were always working on. But he couldn’t remember if he’d ever smiled where they would see. He couldn’t remember if he threatened them, or chastised them. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever taken them home, or if he ever told them stories about his past. But there was Miko’s pink and black hair bobbing along in his memories, and Rafael’s fingers flying across a keyboard, and Jack groaning when Miko beat him in whatever game they were playing. Those were the faded memories, the ones hardest to recall, but the only ones Ratchet wanted to remember.

Jack and Miko had lived nice, long lives in human standards, Jack grew a family of his own in Jasper, and Miko returned to Japan to take care of her aging parents. They were both happy when they passed, surrounded by their loved ones, and comfortable in their old age. Ratchet and the rest of Team Prime had dragged themselves to Earth, dragged themselves to see each before they passed. They said their goodbyes, and tears were shed, but Rafael never got that. 

Spring break of his senior year in an Ivy League college in New York, Rafael was driving back to Nevada to visit. He was on the turnpike when the front left tire of his dinged up, cheap car blew out. The car spun out of control, and a tractor trailer hauling cement couldn’t slow down in time. 

He was declared dead on site. 

Ratchet sucked in a gulp of river water, optics stinging as they struggled to cycle open. The current felt faster than before, berating his back and his chest and screaming at him to get out. The roar came again; “Get out!”

Frantic, he scrambled for something to hold onto, but the spray from the water and fresh images of Rafael’s open casket slammed him back under. Even though it hurt like a slow amputation with a rusty hatchet, Ratchet kicked his legs, trying to free himself from the log and boulders. His digits scraped against the river bottom and he pushed off from it, finally getting his torso above water. He latched onto the log and wedged his arms under it, next to his leg. He let the rapids drag him back under, and the leverage of his arms rising lifted the log high enough for his leg to slip free. 

Ratchet dragged himself to the muddy bank and used yet another misplaced boulder to haul himself up and over the steep lip. He collapsed there, water flushing from his every nook and cranny, and stared up at the moon and the glimmering stars. He convinced himself that Optimus, Cliffjumper, and the children were all up there somewhere, staring back at him and shaking their heads. What a disappointment. 

~~

The sun was what woke him up. The giant ball of gas always seemed to be there when he opened his optics. It was blinding, but as he struggled to sit up, he realized his frame had dried. He took a moment to glance around, focusing on the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. there were no trees here, not even dead ones, instead he was surrounded by miles of tall-grown, festering weeds. Their thorns and bristles stuck to his side and in his back. Surprisingly enough, his wounds had closed over night and were covered in sickly scabs. 

Ratchet remembered the screaming from the night before, the insistent pleas for him to get out of the water. He subconsciously looked around for someone; a human, or anything, but he was alone. He didn’t really expect to find anyone, it was just a hope. A stupid, naive hope. 

His servos twisted in the weeds, but he didn’t bother trying to get up. His frame was weak beyond relief, and not even rest could change that. The thrum of his spark was barely audible, and it was slow and uncertain, like a sparkling taking its first steps. Except there was nothing new and vibrant about it; Ratchet was dying. He could feel it resonate in his bones, but he didn't fight it. He just laid there among the weeds and let it wash over him, like a turbulent sea breeze or a cloud of acid-heavy smog. 

Death isn’t peaceful. Not when you’re alone. There’s no one to keep you from getting lost in your thoughts and your past. 

Every second, Ratchet felt his optics become heavier, and his spark beat slower. He couldn’t feel his legs, and he couldn’t hear the songbirds hopping around him, chirping. He just stared up at the sun, waiting for it to descend on him, fill him with warmth.

The ground shook, and a cloud blocked the sun. Something cool brushed against Ratchet’s spark chamber. 

His throat tightened, his optics cycled down, and he muttered, “Don’t let me suffer any more, Primus. Please.”

“Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?”

Ratchet shook his helm, trying to clear the fog gathering in his helm. He thought, Megatron can’t be here, he can’t care. He’s a killer, not a— 

Shaking servos lifted Ratchet to lean against a chassis. Megatron cradled Ratchet as he whispered, “It is okay, Doctor. You aren’t alone, I promise.”

A quaking started in Ratchet’s servos and it spread rapidly. He was dying. After everything, he couldn’t believe he was dying. He’d wanted this for so long, and now he gets it? When it’s Megatron’s servos rubbing his shoulders and whispering in his audials? He tried to tell Megatron to stop, but his voice was already gone. Something cold spread through his veins, leaving him shivering, and Megatron drew him closer. Megatron’s spark beat a soothing melody, a steady thrumming in his chassis. 

“Can you hear the birds, Doctor?”

He could, but they were fading. Their sweet, mournful tunes barely reached him through the fog in his helm. He tried to nod, but his body didn’t move.

Megatron’s servos covered Ratchet’s spark chamber. “I pray to Primus you can hear them. They are singing just for you, Ra...”

Ratchet imagined the birds singing, even after he lost his hearing and his sense of touch. It was all fading faster and faster, but his head was empty. He was ready to go, and he wasn’t alone. He never would be. 

Megatron promised.


End file.
